


Interlude

by ThereBeDragons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69, Angst, But a long time ago, Clueless about how relationships work, Eventual Johnlock, Implied Non-Con, John comes back into his life!, Light Bondage, M/M, Mild Kink, Not really married to his work, Oi that's a surprise even to me, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pining for John, Rimming, Safeword Use, Sherlock experiments sexually, Sherlock's trying to move on, Though Sherlock's deleted the names for most sex acts, Top Sherlock, Virgin Sherlock, You should definitely read the original story, bottomSherlock, break-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 11:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10436529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThereBeDragons/pseuds/ThereBeDragons
Summary: Emma Grant’s “Nothing to Make a Song About” is one of my favorite fanfictions in the entire universe. Her introduction of Sherlock’s ex-lover, Philip, intrigued me. What had it been like when they first met? When they were together? Was Sherlock able to delete John from his memories?(Not bloody likely!)This is how I picture it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nothing to Make a Song About](https://archiveofourown.org/works/641558) by [emmagrant01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmagrant01/pseuds/emmagrant01). 



> Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked, so I welcome helpful comments!
> 
> And, of course, not my characters - neither the BBC Sherlock ones nor Philip. My sincere thanks for letting me romp in these playgrounds!
> 
> *Interlude: an instrumental passage or a piece of music rendered between the parts of a song, church service, drama, etc.*

He was blond, but otherwise the man was nothing like John.

Tall, when John was short. Muscular in an athletic, showy way, whereas John kept his surprisingly-powerful physique hidden away under ridiculous jumpers. Outgoing, gregarious, touching Sherlock’s hand over the café table to make his point. John had often smiled at people, yes. He’d been more extroverted than Sherlock, but that wasn’t much of a concession to anything. However, John hadn’t told long – and clearly-rehearsed – stories meant to entertain Sherlock, to catch and hold his attention. John had had Sherlock with a glance. With a cup of tea and an affectionate, offhand, “You idiot.” At least that’s how it had been, before the Fall.

Sherlock shook his thoughts away.

Philip was still talking: this handsome, fit man, his hair swept back with more product than even Sherlock would ever use, telling a clever, amusing (many-times-told-already) tale about an experiment gone awry in a university physics lab. It was the third time they'd met this week. Why hadn't Sherlock rebuffed him yet? He wasn’t John.

Yet Sherlock found him oddly compelling, just the same.

The man paused in his storytelling, waiting for a response. For a millisecond Sherlock halted the cataloguing taking place in his brain, rewound the conversation (monologue) until he pinpointed what was required of him, and answered with the barest of hesitations: “So he neglected to rotate the chamber to ‘closed’ on the air gun he was using to measure the Rutherford Scattering? I can see how that would be a problem…”

Philip nodded, smiled even more broadly, and continued, not realizing that Sherlock was barely paying attention, only the most insignificant fraction of his mind engaged. No one noticed, usually, that Sherlock was taking mental snapshots, sorting and filing information, analyzing in the moment, deciding what to save and what to synthesize later – if he even needed to return to it. No one noticed besides John, of course. John was always the exception.

And John was gone. He’d been gone for years.

The man – Philip – reached out and touched Sherlock again. Typically no one touched him ( _no one except John_ , Sherlock’s traitorous thoughts reminded him, again), or, at least, no one touched him more than once. His usual reaction was to pull back, to cut the person off, to cut them with his words or to snarl his displeasure. But this man prompted none of those reactions. Sherlock watched, almost dissociated from the scene, as the man’s hand stroked Sherlock’s forearm and wrist through his suit jacket. Why was Philip touching him again? And why was Sherlock not recoiling in anger or disgust? For some reason he couldn’t answer that in the moment. Too much sensory data flooding his system? He filed all the information away to analyze, later, at his leisure.

“…and, as I always tell my students, the moral of this story is, ‘Keep your limbs out of the scattering apparatus!’” Philip finished, squeezing Sherlock’s arm in emphasis.

“Amusing,” Sherlock said. He meant it. He found the man vaguely amusing. Faintly appealing. Why was that?

Perhaps it didn’t matter. Perhaps what mattered was the fact that this man was looking at Sherlock with the kind of affectionate understanding that no one since…no one ever looked at him with. Anymore. Perhaps this man would be a friend. So Sherlock told a story to the man, not even as grudgingly as he’d though he would. “That reminds me of a time when I was measuring the diffraction levels of the microwave and had a…slight mishap with the klystron transmitter…”

Philip laughed in all the right places. He continued to touch Sherlock. Repeatedly. And when Sherlock was done telling about the explosions and the mess and the resulting histrionics of his landlady, Philip shook his head and said, “I really don’t want to go but I’m going to be late for my office hours! This has been great. I mean it, Sherlock. Thanks so much for meeting me again. Would you maybe…would you like to come over to my place for dinner on Saturday? I’m a decent cook. Not that you eat much, I know…”

A friend. Someone to break the monotony of _alone with his thoughts_. Someone who could – perhaps? Would it be possible? – disrupt the constantly-spinning cycle of _missing John_ , _wishing for John_ , _I hate myself for losing John_.

A friend. So Sherlock said, “Yes. All right.” And even, then: “Thank you.” Because he had learned a few things, after all, since John.


	2. Chapter 2

Philip lived in an up-market section of Mayfair, in a sleek and modern flat done in bleached wood and chrome and glass. There was not a speck of dust – cleaning service twice a week, Sherlock deduced – nor an extraneous pile of newspapers or books or _anything_ lying around. Modern paintings – skillful but not museum-quality, obviously done by artist acquaintances of Philip’s – adorned the walls; a small marble statue of two men, gods perhaps? Sherlock had deleted most of his mythology – in the style of Giovanni Bologna, obviously modern, though – was tucked on an inlaid black table in the corner; a cluster of photographs framed in black and white lined one recessed shelf in the living room. Sherlock was scanning his eyes over the photos when Philip reentered the living room.

“What are you guessing about me? I can barely bring myself to ask,” Philip said, handing Sherlock a glass.

“Mmm,” Sherlock responded, taking a long sip of truly excellent Shiraz. “I never guess.” He’d learned – finally – not to answer questions like that. But the preponderance of men in the photographs with Philip, along with the Grecian-style statue and mildly homoerotic paintings on the wall led him to believe…

And his deductions were, of course, spot on, he discovered, as Philip abandoned his glass of wine on the complicated, multi-tiered coffee table, removed Sherlock’s own glass from his hands, and leaned into Sherlock’s space, his hands on Sherlock’s waist. No one had been this close in years. Sherlock caught his breath.

“Is this okay?” Philip asked. And he must have read some hint of acquiescence on Sherlock’s face because he closed the rest of the distance between them.

Sherlock remembered to close his eyes. He must not have deleted that part. He closed his eyes and let himself be kissed. Perhaps he even kissed back; it was difficult to know, as flooded with sensations as he felt in the moment. He opened his lips to Philip’s insistent tongue and heard himself make a low, unfamiliar sound, deep in his throat. _I suppose I’m enjoying this_ , he thought. Vague memories pushed at his consciousness: that woman he’d kissed for a case, the Magnussen case, and John had actually shown signs of jealousy and hadn’t that been interesting? A classmate who’d kissed him at Uni, to Sherlock’s surprise and immediate rejection, and then the man had mooned around spectacularly, claiming a broken heart, and demanded a different lab partner and eventually transferred to another Chemistry course. A few hazy encounters from the years he was using: sour tongues and predatory hands, his body groped and mouth violated when he was high enough not to care. It was alarming. Interesting, too. The motor memory must be stronger than he’d thought, if a mere kiss could bring back recollections he thought he’d deleted permanently.

“God, Sherlock. Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” Philip whispered, interrupting Sherlock’s racing, disconcertingly-disorganized thoughts. “You know I was smitten the moment you walked through the door of that café, don’t you?” He pulled away enough to run his teeth along Sherlock’s neck, pushing the collar of his shirt aside to nip and suck along the skin above his carotid artery. Another body, so close. The smell of Philip’s hair gel, bath wash, aftershave – all expensive, all subtle and spicy but still there, a multitude of data for Sherlock to sort, file, save. Arms around him; a body – large, muscular, male – pushing against his. _Not John_ , Sherlock’s brain supplied, but somehow it was a weak signal transmitting to his corporeal self; _not John_ and yet Sherlock didn’t fight when Philip walked him backwards and pinned him against the stark white wall of his oh-so-stylish flat and snogged him until Sherlock’s knees were weak and he was almost whimpering under the man’s skillful touches. Hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, face, waist. Mouth on Sherlock’s lips, eyelids, neck. Teeth on his earlobe, hot breath in his ear, making Sherlock shudder with unforeseen, unexpected want.

Sherlock let him.

Because it wasn’t like that time he’d been working late in the lab at school and his tedious classmate had made those unwelcome overtures; it wasn’t like that woman – sickly-sweet smell, waxy lipstick, too-soft body – he’d wooed for the Magnussen case; surprisingly it wasn’t even like those men who’d taken what they wanted from him when he was gone from his mind, dissociated and watching his body from a space high above the actual proceedings. This was different. In spite of himself. In spite of the fact that this wasn’t his area and he was married to his Work and he didn’t do relationships and _it wasn’t John_ …Sherlock let him.

And perhaps Sherlock even kissed him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tip of the (virtual) pen to another favorite fanfic: Anterograde, by berlynn_wohl. I picture the statue in Philip's living room as a mini-version of the one that sparked John's fantasies.
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/281467


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Earning its E rating, starting in this chapter. If you’re not interested in M/M smut please look elsewhere for entertainment.

_What makes someone a virgin_? Sherlock wondered. Or _not a virgin_?

He’d once read an explanation that it was “orgasm in the presence of another person.” Or other people, plural, he supposed. If, back when he was in his 20’s, in some squalid drugs den or club’s public toilet, a man or three had ejaculated into his mouth, did that count? Sherlock didn’t think that he’d ever ejaculated reciprocally then. Usually he didn’t like being touched by other people. By his own hand, yes. Often, back in the days when John had lived at 221B; when John had brought women home and tiptoed up the stairs with them, not nearly as quietly as he’d clearly intended. When Sherlock could hear a woman’s moans and the creaking bedsprings, and occasionally John’s headboard bang-bang-banging against the wall…then Sherlock had lain beneath in his own bed and stroked himself, trying to time his orgasm with John’s...

 _Not good_ , Sherlock chastised himself. More than a bit not good. Imagining John at the very moment another man was penetrating himself with Sherlock’s cock.

But in a small, locked room in his Mind Palace he tried never to open…he’d always wanted it to be John: the one – _sentiment! Awful! Putrid, hateful sentiment!_ – the one to whom he’d lose his virginity. John, or no one.

John didn’t want him, though. Not as a lover, nor even a friend. John had cut all ties, invited Sherlock to his wedding – _look how normal my life is now! Look how I’ve moved on!_ – and John was _not gay_ …

So now there was another man, an objectively fit and handsome man – _a man actually going to fuck himself right now on Sherlock’s prick_ – a man who seemed not only to desire Sherlock but actually to _like_ him – and while admittedly Sherlock could manage up to twelve disparate thoughts in his mind at the same time when his thinking was at its most lucid, this was not the time for complex mental manipulations and _he had better focus_.

Focus was difficult, though, when he was overwhelmed by sensory data: Philip’s smell, the fabric softener on his sheets layered onto the scents of the man’s bath products and his sweat, now, his musky own odor that seemed to react with the reptilian part of Sherlock’s brain; how else could he explain letting someone this close? The taste of him, in Sherlock’s mouth: red wine and mouthwash beneath that, and hints of his own, distinctive taste, the taste of his skin – surprising. Why had Sherlock licked the man’s neck? His ears, his nipples, the soft blond hair of his chest? Reptile brain again. Pheromones.

The sounds: Philip’s low gasps and moans. His murmuring: “God, you’re sexy. Look at you. So gorgeous. Can I touch you like this? Is this okay? You’re like a Grecian statue, Sherlock. Look at that pale skin. I need to taste you, Sherlock…” Traitorous words; words he’d imagined – almost verbatim – spilling from John’s mouth, aeons ago, in another lifetime. What Sherlock saw though, was so very different from what he’d imagined: not John’s golden skin and compact form; not John’s bright blue eyes crinkling at the corners in affection and amusement. Philip was a different animal altogether, tall and sleek, chiseled muscles and serious, cautious movements. He moved like he’d spook Sherlock. Like Sherlock was a prize he’d won, a gift he’d been given. Not like John. John would’ve known that Sherlock was already a part of him. That Sherlock had been his the whole time.

Focus. Focus on the feelings – isn’t that what people were supposed to do during sex? Tame his runaway mind and concentrate on the sensations instead? Sherlock replayed the mental video: Philip’s kissing him in the living room. Snogging him against the wall, his erection grinding against Sherlock’s own nascent arousal. Leading Sherlock – so docile! So eager to follow! – into this airy gray and white bedroom and shoving the duvet onto the floor – uncharacteristic; the careless haste communicated Philip’s desire more overtly than any words could – before unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and positively _worshiping_ his body.

And mostly Sherlock just stood there and allowed it to happen. He gave consent when it was asked. He touched, a little – cataloguing the feel of Philip’s hair when Philip kneeled to unzip Sherlock’s trousers and begin to perform fellatio. He watched the man’s mouth stretched around his cock, spit-shiny lips and tongue working, gray-blue eyes flicking up towards Sherlock’s to gauge his arousal. And because Philip knew – had been told by other lovers, obviously – what an erotic vision he made, kneeling, sucking, chest heaving and eyes filled with want. Even Sherlock wasn’t immune. Not when Philip was practically choking on his cock. When he reached to slide his hand around Sherlock’s bollocks, to kneed them gently, pulling – oh! Yes, like that – and when Sherlock could watch Philip’s other hand snaking into his own trousers and stroking himself while he sucked Sherlock off. The man was talented, Sherlock had to admit.

Fingers, wet with spit, unexpectedly pressing against his arsehole made Sherlock jump, recoil. “No,” he said – his first limit of the evening. His _no_ came out without conscious thought – no, not that. Not if it isn’t John.

Dammit. God damn it to a hell he doesn’t believe in, and back. All these years – and a beautiful specimen of a man actually _on his knees_ for Sherlock – and still, that’s where his mind went? Back to John. God fucking damn it.

“You,” Sherlock managed to say. “I’d like…that is, if that’s something…” He had no language for this. He was stupid, babbling, almost.

In spite of his idiocy (dredged up from his Mind Palace: a fond voice laughing at him, “You idiot…”; no, don’t think about that; shut up, you stupid, ceaseless, fixated brain) _in spite of his idiocy_ Philip said, “Yes, in fact, it is…” and unfolded himself from the floor to finish undressing the both of them, and lead Sherlock to bed.

Naked, Philip was breathtaking. He seemed to know it, too, and allowed Sherlock ample time to look. “You can touch, too,” he said, smiling in a way Sherlock knew had worked with other lovers – made other lovers roll over onto their backs and prop their hips on pillows for him, gladly spreading their legs and letting Philip open them up and penetrate them with his quite-enormous prick.

Sherlock hated his own hesitancy. His ignorance. Although he hadn’t completely deleted the scant kisses, the few sexual encounters he’d had in his lifetime, nothing prepared him for this: being sober, in a clean bed, with an attractive, attentive lover. Someone who seemed to feel _sentiment_ towards Sherlock; would he even want a _relationship?_ Would Sherlock? Except for dreams of John – _damn, I told you to shut it!_ – except for that one other time in his life, with that one other person whose name he would _not_ think anymore while having sex with someone else – this was completely out of Sherlock’s realm of experience. And while he could fake his way through many, many situations, his mouth went dry and his hands froze up at this. Maybe his insufferable brother had been right, all those years ago: maybe sex did alarm him.

Now that was a mood-killer. Sherlock tossed Mycroft right out of his perfidious mind and said, “Philip. This. This is really not my…area of expertise. I’ve always focused on my work. You’ll…you’ll have to show me…”

Philip grinned and raised his eyebrows. He was…pleased, Sherlock could tell. To be Sherlock’s first. To show him what to do. He liked the idea of Virgin Sherlock.

So he taught Sherlock how to penetrate with fingers first – their lube-slicked fingers intermingling, pushing together into Philip’s pink hole – and how to stroke Philips cock and keep it hard as they opened his arse more and more. And finally he panted, “Here, lie down,” and nudged Sherlock onto the pillows, and expertly rolled on a condom and slicked Sherlock well, then Philip straddled Sherlock and lined him up, and pushed down – in – slowly, slowly – impaled himself on Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock met Philip’s hooded eyes with his own wide-open ones as Philip slid down and down and was fully seated and Sherlock was inside another person and it was _not John_ but still it was tight, so tight, and so very scorching hot and he thought _I’m going to climax the moment he starts to move_ and Philip said, “You can…you can touch…”

And Sherlock moved one hand to Philip’s side and his other to Philip’s – massive, leaking – prick and Philip began to fuck himself in earnest on Sherlock’s _unbelievably hard_ cock and Sherlock thought – in the seconds before his consciousness broke apart and shattered into a million tiny mindless pieces on the bed and he came – pulsing, uncontrolled and animalistic – in Philip’s tight, hot arse –

 _Not a virgin anymore_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May be a while before I can continue this...I wish real life didn't infringe on my Johnlock. Sigh.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock unleashes his libido. Poor Philip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus!

He’d promised himself he wouldn’t think about John.   
  
It should have gotten easier, as time passed: as he became more familiar with Philip’s body, his mind and habits and conversation. As they woke together – often – in Philip’s airy apartment, sharing tea together, discussing their days ahead. Disgustingly domestic.   
  
Sentiment must have crept up on Sherlock, gotten a claw-hold on his psyche. He invited Philip over to 221B. Sat Philip in John’s chair, ate Thai takeout with him at the coffee table, took him to Sherlock’s bed and had his way with him.  
  
Perhaps it was the physics of the situation: the confluence of space and time and matter. John’s bedroom – _it hadn’t been, not for so many years, why did he still think of it that way?_ – John’s bedroom was still directly overhead. How many times had Sherlock lain in bed and imagined John? John literally above him. On top of him. Pressing into him, hard-sweaty-golden- _John_. He’d thought taking Philip to bed here would exorcise those demons. (Really? Had he, in fact, really expected that to work?)  
  
Philip prided himself on being a considerate lover, spoke often of being Good, Game, and Giving, and he certainly fulfilled those tenets. Good in the way he took Sherlock’s cock in his mouth, fellating him for what felt like hours. Giving, how he allowed himself to be opened over and over again, being taken on his back and front and side, against the kitchen table, over John’s chair – _take that you ceaseless demons_ – still always respecting Sherlock’s limit that they not switch. And game; oh my, was he game, for every experiment Sherlock dreamed up, every position and fancy and question Sherlock had about sex. From where had all these questions come? Had they been lurking all along in his Mind Palace, just waiting to be released into the world?   
  
“How far will your ejaculate shoot when I rub you manually and simultaneously stimulate your prostate with my fingers? Will it propel even farther when this remote-controlled, vibrating anal-plug I found on the Internet is inside you? How does the taste of your pre-ejaculatory fluid change when I fellate you in the morning, evening, or in the middle of the night? (Sorry to wake you, Philip, but science comes first. So to speak.) Silicone versus water-based lubricants: which of them feels best for performing anal penetration? For receiving it? (One to ten, Philip, with ten being the best. Come now, I’m just asking for a number. Use your brain.) Which stay slippery longest? (Hold still, I need to enter this data into the spreadsheet before I continue.) How long can you last when I handcuff you to the bed and edge you, over and over again? (Oh please, you could get out of those handcuffs if you really wanted to. Philip. It’s not _rocket science_.) How do external stimuli affect our stamina – the wood of the sitting room floor (not worth the subsequent knee pain), the rug (better), the bathroom?” (That was a good one, fucking Philip against the wall of his luxurious glass shower, pulsating water distracting Sherlock just enough to prolong his orgasm and tip Philip into begging – outright _begging_ – for Sherlock to touch him, to let him come. They’d knocked the door open and caused a veritable tidal-wave on the floor, and their hollering when they finally both orgasmed provoked Philip’s next-door neighbor to bang angrily on the wall with – Sherlock deduced – the handle of a broomstick; Sherlock made a mental note not to try that one at 221B unless Mrs. Hudson was away visiting her sister.)  
  
Philip was game for it all. And understanding when Lestrade called and Sherlock disappeared immediately, uncommunicative for days. “Most boyfriends complain that I spend too much time at the gym,” Philip said. “Or in the lab, or at conferences. I can already tell that my research is going to benefit from these long stretches when you’re on a case.”  
  
 _Boyfriends_. When had they become that?  
  
Sherlock supposed it was when Philip raised the matter of exclusivity. They’d been together for a month ( _Together_ , Sherlock chided himself. A euphemism. They’d been _fucking_ for a month, he corrected in his mind, relishing the obscenity. He’d been fucking Philip in every possible way he could imagine. Mentally Sherlock thumbed his nose at all those people who’d thought he was asexual, a robot, a machine… _Stop it_. Stop right there.) Anyway, exactly one month after the night Philip had first kissed him and they’d tumbled into bed, Philip had taken Sherlock out — late — to a cozy tapas restaurant where they’d sat in a dark corner and nibbled carpaccio and tortillitas with shrimp and downed glass after glass of a crisply-chilled rosé.   
  
“I’m not seeing anyone else,” Philip said, seemingly out of the blue. “It’s been a month…”  
  
“Sentiment,” scoffed Sherlock, but they were seated so close together he could lean into Philip’s space and breathe his scent: the mildest hint of expensive citrus-sandalwood aftershave. Soap. A tinge of nervous sweat. Sloughed off skin cells? Maybe Sherlock was being fanciful – and maybe it was the wine – but he felt remarkably close to Philip. Not just close: bonded. It was the pheromones, he knew. Residual oxytocin and dopamine from their mutual fellatio session an hour before.   
  
“Yes,” said Philip. “Exactly.” He kissed Sherlock, lightly, on the lips. In spite of their being in public. In spite of Sherlock’s inherent…unlovability? Was that even a word? Sherlock’s brain was sluggish, clouded with sentiment and sex and alcohol.   
  
“I got tested before we started seeing each other,” Philip continued. “I was clean, but I’ll get tested again, just to be sure. I’d like…if you did it, too, we could ditch the condoms…”  
  
“Hmm. Yes, and add oil-based lubricants to my research,” Sherlock mused.  
  
“Such a romantic,” murmured Philip, but he nuzzled Sherlock’s neck with his lips in a way that implied he didn’t mind. That he didn’t find Sherlock unlovable.   
  
_Love_. Such a strange word. Was this what people meant? That he willingly shared his life with someone — _not John, someone who was not John_ — let someone else make his tea and nag him to eat and take him to bed and hold him in the night and…and…  
  
Sherlock watched porn for ideas, awakening a libido that had been dormant most of his life. He masturbated, something he hadn’t done since sharing 221B with John. He worked, too, of course, taking private cases as well as those from the Met. He conducted experiments in the kitchen and lay for long stretches on the couch organizing his Mind Palace. All the while sustaining this… _relationship_. The word left an odd taste in his mind, so to speak, but clearly that’s what it was. A relationship. He probed at it, turning it over, examining and investigating and deducing.   
  
Maybe he wasn’t really married to his Work.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not John. Sorry.

If he wasn’t married to his work it changed everything, in retrospect. The _what if’s_ crept in: What if he’d never rebuffed John’s initial proposition? (It had been a proposition, hadn’t it? An unconscious one, perhaps? Or was he reading things that weren’t there?) What if, over the ensuing years, he’d given John some sign of encouragement, a hint that he wasn’t asexual or uninterested or _bloody married to his work_? The thoughts buzzed in Sherlock’s head, angry hornets that kept him awake and pacing on the nights he wasn’t with Philip. So, over the months, it became easier, more expedient, to spend the nights with Philip.  
  
There were fewer memories in Philip’s ultra-modern flat. Fewer disturbances. No ghost of John in every corner. No Mrs. Hudson appearing with tea or biscuits or “I’m not your housekeeper but I’ll tidy up just this once,” so transparently overjoyed at Sherlock’s _relationship_. No Mycroft tap-tap-tapping his way up the seventeen steps to 221B with his umbrella, making himself at home in John’s chair and insinuating his oily self under Sherlock’s skin. Most nights Sherlock spent at Philip’s place, where he amused himself on the playground of Philip’s body before tumbling into a sated, post-orgasmic sleep.  
  
One night, after a case: after he’d unwound the mystery of the Musgrave text, solved the disappearance of the personal assistant and the secretary, and discovered the hidden royal relic — after he blazed in deductions and insight and sheer brilliance — after he’d been feted with accolades by Lestrade and the press and Reginald Musgrave himself — Sherlock slammed into Philip’s flat in an unusually-manic case-filled euphoria.  
  
“…It was the height of the oak tree!” Sherlock announced, gleeful, to a bemused Philip. “And the former position of the elm — cut down in the 1980’s, obviously — that led to the hidden cellar. The stone slab was well-hidden but of course I found the iron ring to open it…”  
  
Philip guided Sherlock to a barstool at the kitchen island. He nodded as he listened, murmuring encouraging words: “Amazing! And then what?” Without interruption he moved quietly around the kitchen, assembling dinner and sliding a plate in front of Sherlock, a lovely piece of salmon with couscous and veg, and watched with affection as Sherlock devoured the meal, all the while recounting his story at full tilt, gesticulating with his hands…  
  
“…And Brunton had obviously suffocated, left there by the secretary — she hated him, why would he have chosen as an accomplice someone who hated him? Likely thought she’d be more motivated by greed but she kicked the supports back and left him to die, or perhaps the slab had fallen back into place by itself and she panicked, either way she just left him there…Is there more fish? Anyway, when the secretary fled…”  
  
Philip transferred the rest of his own salmon onto Sherlock’s plate and looked on adoringly while his lover cleared every bit of food in front of him, downed three glasses of water and two of a luscious Sancerre, and wrapped up the tale. “…Clearly the original holder of the ritual died before teaching his son about its significance. But now it’s come to light.”  
  
“Thanks to you. You brilliant man,” Philip said.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes rested fully on him, the first time that evening. Had he even registered Philip’s presence before? His whirring mind came, abruptly, to a full stop. There is a beautiful man here, Sherlock thought. A man who’s calling me amazing and brilliant. Maybe it was enough to push out the thoughts of J—…of another man. Maybe Sherlock really could move on.  
  
“Philip,” he said, his voice low, electric. “Come to bed.”  
  
Philip did not need to be asked twice.  
  
And he let Sherlock take charge in the bedroom, let Sherlock strip him, push him onto the bed. His heart rate sped even more as Sherlock pulled off his own clothes and braced himself over Philip, eyeing him like a predator before just…taking. Taking Philip’s mouth, hungrily. Working his way down Philip’s neck and chest, biting and sucking, leaving marks that would show for days. Pulling Philip’s knees up to spread him open, using lips, tongue, teeth to lick and suck and _worship_ Philip’s arsehole…  
  
“Oh god, Sherlock…oh bloody Christ, I need you, please…Sherlock…”  
  
This was no experiment. This was Sherlock _on fire_ with adrenaline and the Work and lust — yes, lust! — for this man writhing and begging beneath him. Madly Sherlock groped for the lubricant in the bedside drawer and prepared Philip as best as he could considering his own ravenous state and Philip’s howling, near-chanting, “Just do it! Fuck me, Sherlock, please, fuck me already…”  
  
“Damnit, hold still, you’re almost ready, I know what you can take…” Sherlock said, and he slapped the side of Philip’s bum with his free hand. Philip moaned again loudly but settled down a bit, grasping his knees with his hands to expose himself even more obscenely. It was minimal preparation but Sherlock couldn’t hold back anymore; he slicked himself and lined up with Philip’s hole, sliding just the head of his cock in…  
  
“Nnnghh, yes. Yes! Sherlock, fuck me, take me, make me yours…”  
  
Yes, Sherlock thought. _Mine_. He fucked Philip like a wild man, like a beast possessed. Let the transport take over, rutting until Philip had to grasp the headboard above, eyes rolling back in his head, a nonsensical _Oh oh oh oh_ pushed out of him with every one of Sherlock’s thrusts.  
  
“Sher…I’m…I’m…” and Philip came suddenly, his cock untouched, spurting over his stomach and chest, as his arse clenched around Sherlock like a vice.  
  
“Oh…god…” Sherlock panted in a voice he didn’t recognize as his own, his mind wiped clean and his eyes shut, head thrown back, and his orgasm hit him like an oncoming train.  
  
When he returned to full consciousness Sherlock was sprawled on top of Philip, who was kissing his hair, his face, whatever he could reach, and murmuring fragments of thoughts: “Jesus, Sherlock…that was…I’ve never…Christ…”  
  
On shaky arms Sherlock pushed some of his weight off of Philip. “Sorry, I must be getting heavy…”  
  
“No, don’t go.” Reaching up to stroke Sherlock’s cheek, Philip looked at him with the softest expression Sherlock had ever seen on his face. Warm blue eyes, blond hair mussed and wild against the pillow; Sherlock felt almost as if he were truly seeing the other man for the first time, all of Philip’s defenses stripped away.  
  
“Sherlock,” Philip whispered. “I…I love you.”  
  
Sherlock froze. What? He loves me? He doesn’t even know me. Does he? No one does. No one except…  
  
John. For once Sherlock hadn’t been thinking about John. Comparing. Pining. Wishing it were John he was kissing, licking, taking to bed. Maybe that was apparent, somehow. Maybe Sherlock was stripped bare, too.  
  
Embarrassment crept in, and…was that guilt? As if he were being unfaithful? Ridiculous. A normal person would respond in kind, say _I love you, too_ , and bask in the sentiment and coital afterglow. A normal person would, in fact, feel it. It wasn’t true for Sherlock, though. He knew he wasn’t wired that way, to love more than one person. Perhaps ever. And he hated himself for it.  
  
He could lie. He could just say it back. But he respected Philip enough not to, not to go along in pretense, to say words he didn’t feel. Sherlock tried to suppress the naked anguish from his face as he slowly pulled out of Philip’s body, to keep the despair from his voice as he forced a measured tone, “I…I thank you, Philip. That’s a great gift, your love.” Judging by Philip’s stung expression it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but Sherlock meant it. He was grateful — and that was the most he could give.  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Philip said, "I love you," to Sherlock, and Sherlock replies, "Thank you." Philip is not pleased.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hard to write someone else loving Sherlock, taking care of him...but I console myself that Johnlock is yet to come. (Pun, perhaps, intended.)

“You thank me?” The incredulity - and the hurt - on Philip’s face was difficult to accept, even for Sherlock.

Averting his eyes, Sherlock replied, “Yes. Thank you. That’s..it’s…” Words completely abandoned him. Agitated, he finally choked out, “Sorry, I need to go…clean up…” and fled to the bathroom. Locking the door, Sherlock braced his hands against the sink and attempted to get his raging thoughts under control. Without a doubt, the sex they’d just had should have been the erotic highlight of his life so far. And yet, the image that kept invading his head was an entirely unwelcome one: a different blond man, gazing up at Sherlock in amazement as they leaned, panting, against the gaudy wallpaper in 221 Baker Street, laughing as they bantered about the ridiculousness of what they’d just done. That spark he’d felt, the instant lightning-bolt of connection and attraction and lust - it still clouded his mind, all these years later, crowding out all other possibilities.

“You are a fucking disaster,” Sherlock said to himself slowly in the mirror, enunciating each word. At least that made him smile. A wobbly, pathetic smile, but one nonetheless.

He washed quickly and brought Philip a warm, damp flannel with which to clean himself. And they didn’t speak of it again that night, or for several days to come.

***

The next time Philip mentioned _love_ they were out to dinner. It had been almost a week since the Musgrave incident and no other cases from either Lestrade or his website had been worth any attention at all; barely a three between the lot. Sherlock was in a funk of boredom, agitation over experiments going badly and general irritation at the world. After days of unanswered texts and calls, Philip had finally come to 221B and extricated him, saying, “You’re a mess, Sherlock, and I’ve never seen a flat in such a state. When did you last sleep? Or bathe, for that matter? And I’ll eat your favorite blue scarf if you’ve had a proper meal in the past 48 hours. Go. Get get out of that grotty bathrobe and take a shower. I want to try the new Japanese place on Grosvenor Street, and we can head back to my place after. That way we’ll be out of this hell-hole when the Westminster City Council arrives to condemn it.”

“You didn’t have to come over if it’s so _appalling_ to you,” Sherlock groused, but he shucked his admittedly nasty pajamas and bathrobe and showered. While he was dressing he could hear Philip in the kitchen, none-too-gently doing the washing up and muttering loudly about _bio hazards_ and _unsanitary living conditions_.

“Be careful with those flasks. And you’re not my housekeeper,” Sherlock said when he emerged, buttoning the cuffs on his shirt and hearing Mrs. Hudson’s echo in his words. “You don’t have to do that.”

“No, I don’t.” Philip looked up from the full sink and sucked in a deep breath. “But you’re worth it.” His eyes roved over Sherlock’s lean form, his tight black pants and well-fitting shirt. Shaking his head, Philip said, “It’s a good thing you’re so gorgeous or I’d just leave you to moulder in this pit…come on, stop snarling at me. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”

It was late enough the restaurant wasn’t too crowded; they got a table in the back, comfortable and secluded, and Philip ordered for them since Sherlock was still brooding and distracted. Though he’d never admit it, he did feel better after he had some soup and a couple of dumplings. By the time he’d eaten all of his black cod and a fair portion of Philip’s negimaki, his foul mood had mostly dissipated. He sipped saki and leaned back, watching Philip prod the last few scallion bits with his chopsticks.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said. It was less painful than he’d thought it would be. All of it - not just the banal politeness. “I suppose I do need to eat. Occasionally.”

 “You’re welcome.” Philip, abandoning his chopsticks, poured himself more sake and met Sherlock’s eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you off.”

 “You didn’t scare me off,” Sherlock scoffed, but still he ducked his head while he said it, suddenly fascinated by the empty plate, his dish of soy sauce and wasabi. He didn’t bother feigning ignorance about what Philip meant; they both knew.

“Mmm, maybe not. But you pulled away from me. I…I know this isn’t the kind of thing you usually do. And it’s okay - really - if you’re not feeling the same things I am. Sometimes people take longer…Anyway. Sherlock. I love you. I love the time we spend together. Is that something you can live with?”

 “What a ridiculous question. It’s you whom I should be asking. Can you live with my…deficiencies?”

 “What?”

“My inadequacy. My…sociopathic tendencies.”

“You’re joking, yes? Sherlock.” Philip leaned over the table and stilled Sherlock’s agitatedly tapping hand with his own. “I think you’re amazing. You’re focused on your work, of course, but I am, too, on mine. I know your cases take primacy over personal relationships. But that doesn’t make you a sociopath.”

“I don’t form… _relationships_ …the way other people do.”

 “Maybe not. But you form them just the same.”

 Sherlock extricated his hand from Philip’s grip. After a pause, he said, “What if I can’t…return your love?” It was difficult even to say the word. “What if that’s not something in me, not something I can do?”

 Philip didn’t answer those questions. Instead, very slowly and gently, he asked one of his own: “Have you ever loved?”

 “Yes.” The word slipped out of Sherlock’s mouth almost against his will. “Yes. Once.”

 “Who was…Sherlock, please tell me?”

 He couldn’t. This time the word stuck in his mouth, caught, somehow, by a lump in his throat and - humiliatingly - a stinging in his eyes. He couldn’t, but…the word, the single syllable, was too necessary not to form on his tongue. It had been so long since he’d even said it; and the rush he felt, as he uttered the simple, common name that was so extraordinary to him - his whole world, in fact - was like a sudden hit of cocaine surging through his veins.

 “John,” said Sherlock. And that was all. But it was enough.

 “John Watson?” Understanding dawned in Philip’s eyes. “I read his blog. When we first started emailing and I looked you up. There were all kinds of articles online linking you, so I read his case write-ups. It seemed like there might have been…like there was a hint of…something between you two. You…you loved him?”

 Sherlock nodded, once. Curt, and looking at the wall - cheap rendering of Kumamoto Castle on Kyushu Island, not architecturally accurate, a copy mass-produced in China, in fact, not painted in Japan, with what they charge for gyoza one would think they could spring for real art, what were they doing with all that extra revenue? - instead of at Philip.

 “Sherlock. Sherlock! Come back. I can see your brain whirring off in a million other directions.”

 Forcing himself to meet Philip’s gaze, Sherlock saw there none of the pity he expected. Philip’s expression was soft again, like when they’d made love - dammit, where had that come from? - Like when they’d had intercourse, the last time they’d seen each other. Caring. It was compassion, not pity. A minute distinction but Sherlock could see it, regardless of his expectations.

 “Thank you,” said Philip. “What happened, with John? Will you tell me?”

 “He left,” Sherlock said simply. The words were curt and painful. “I loved him, and he left. He couldn't forgive me after...I'd been away.”

 “I’m so sorry.” Philip reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand again, held it even as the thankfully-silent waiter came and cleared their plates, left the check. The restaurant was almost empty by then but they weren’t the last ones still seated, lingering in the shadowy light.

 “You’re not angry?”

“Angry? Why would…? No, Sherlock. I’m sorry he hurt you so badly. But I’ve had relationships too; we’re both adults, it makes sense that we’ve loved other people in the past. I sense…I can tell that it was a significant relationship for you, maybe your most important one? It’s hard when relationships end. But I’m not angry, not at all. Though you’re single because of it - you’re available to be with me now - I’m still so very sorry he broke your heart.”

 _He broke my heart_. That was such an apt way of describing it. Sherlock turned the phrase over in his mind. Before, he never thought he’d had a heart to break. Perhaps it grew in response to John - heliotropic, a plant reaching out to the sun, Sherlock thought fancifully. My heart grew for him and was destroyed. Irreparably. I have no more heart left to give.

He gave voice to that thought: “What if I’m so…broken…I can’t love again?” Sherlock asked, and Philip quirked his mouth in response - neither smile nor frown, but something in-between, tinged with both affection and hope.

“I’ve felt that way, too,” said Philip. “Like I wouldn’t ever heal. But the heart is resilient, you know. Let’s give it some time, okay? I won’t pressure you.” Biting his lip and looking shy - uncharacteristically so - he asked, “You do…like me? I mean, like spending time with me?”

“Yes, of course. You’re one of the most _not boring_ people I know,” Sherlock said.

Philip barked out an unexpected laugh. “You,” he said, chuckling, but didn’t elaborate. Signaling to the server, he handed over his bank card, bowing slightly and saying “ _Domo arigatou gozaimasu_.” He left a generous tip, conscious that they were now the only patrons left in the restaurant and the wait-staff was loitering, ready to close up.

Outside, Philip said, “That was delicious. We should go there again.”

“Hmm, I don’t know,” Sherlock replied offhandedly, tightening his scarf against the wind. “The quality of the fish they purchase will inevitably decline as the manager continues to siphon off funds to fuel his gambling habit…the horses, I’d say, but perhaps dogs, I’d need to have a closer look at his watchband…”

Once again Philip laughed, his delight pealing across the near-deserted street. “You’re brilliant. I love you.” He kissed Sherlock, soft and sweet, promises of more on his lips. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This, Sherlock thought. This is why I avoid relationships.

Nothing changed. Nothing that Sherlock could discern, not physically. They talked - constantly, appreciatively - about science and cases, about music and art and the pollination habits of bees. They went to restaurants together. Philip enjoyed trying new places, and, while he’d never admit it, Sherlock often liked being persuaded to eat. Sometimes they ate at one of their flats; usually at Philip’s, as it was cleaner and more likely to have edible food in the refrigerator. They had sex. Athletic, exuberant, creative sex - almost all the times they were together, though every so often there’d be a night when they just talked and Sherlock allowed himself to be held, and they slept together - actual sleeping - and somehow it felt almost more intimate than sex. But overall, nothing had changed since the night Philip said _I love you_ and Sherlock escaped into the bathroom, peering into his own face in the mirror and seeing the truth written there: the fact that he’d never loved anyone before John Watson, and he’d never love anyone else after. Full stop.

But they went on as before - dinner dates and sex and texting in between when their respective work allowed. Something felt different, however, and the difference frustrated Sherlock. He was aware of Philip’s eyes on him, hungry now for more than just his body. He felt Philip waiting - anticipating declarations that were never going to come.

It was late, one night after a case, and Sherlock had actually graced Lestrade with his presence back at the Met to complete paperwork, he must be going soft in the head. Letting himself into 221 he heard music from upstairs - the Sibelius Violin Concerto in D Minor, one of Sherlock’s favorites - and the stairwell smelled of roasting chicken and spice. It should have been wonderful. Sherlock should have met the food and music with joy, appreciation. Instead he felt a blanket of dread settle upon him, and wished he could disappear back into the night, onto the streets of London. A few hours spent huddled on a cold and dirty sidewalk, sharing cigarettes with one of his homeless friends, perhaps; even a hot and crowded pub with Gavin would be preferable. Berating himself for his cowardice, his _abnormality_ , Sherlock trudged up the seventeen steps and called, “Hello, Philip.”

“Hello! Oh, you look knackered,” Philip said as he emerged from the kitchen. He kissed Sherlock in welcome. “I hope you don’t mind; I was missing you. Mrs. Hudson let me in.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock grumbled, but he shed his coat and scarf, allowing himself to be ushered into the kitchen and handed a glass of wine.

“Here, I just need to plate dinner. Do you want to change?”

“Why would I want to change?” Sherlock looked at his black suit, his blue shirt. No, he was fine.

“All right. At least wash your hands. Basic hygiene, you know.”

Obediently he did so, then leaned back against the counter - scrubbed today with Power Force Kitchen Cleaner, must have brought supplies from his own flat; no, bought new ones when he was shopping at the Tesco for dinner ingredients - and watched Philip bustle about the room as if he belonged there. It rankled, a nettle poking his skin; this was not the man he pictured cooking in his kitchen.

Sherlock shook his head, feeling like an ungrateful wretch. Deficient. Broken. But all he wanted was a short Army doctor stomping around the room, yelling at him about the mess, calling him a git, an idiot, and banging a plate of overcooked pasta with tomato sauce from a tin onto the table, demanding that he eat.

Instead it was tall and elegant Philip, ready with a smile and a kiss, preparing what smelled like a highly-spiced Tunisian chicken and vegetables. Even though he obviously hated Sherlock’s outdated appliances, his stained counter and chipped dishes, and had been dropping hints for a month that Sherlock should move in with him. Sherlock wouldn’t think of it, though. Baker Street was his home.

Efficiently clearing the table of Sherlock’s papers and periodicals, Philip held one up: _Pszczelnicze Zeszyty Naukowe_. “I can’t even pronounce this! What is it?”

 “What’s now called the _Journal of Apicultural Science_. Before 2001 it was only published in Polish. I needed some back issues. Research.”

 “And you read Polish? You’re brilliant,” Philip said, kissing him again. “Come, eat.”

 It was delicious, of course. The chicken, the couscous; chickpeas, olives and spice; rich green harissa and a dry Albariño. Philip chatted about his graduate students, his plans for the next triathlon, and pouring more wine, tried to draw Sherlock out. “Tell me about the case,” he said. “And how’s Greg doing?”

“You mean Graham? Back with his ex-wife, though it won’t last long.” Only slightly petulant, Sherlock added, “He said thank you, again. Pointlessly.”

“It was my pleasure to help out.”

“Yes, I know.” The entire Met still buzzed about how, a few weeks before, Philip had stripped down to barely-there boxer briefs and dived into the public swimming pool at a crime scene, finding a lone diamond earring at the bottom and leading them to the killer. Not to mention feeding the sexual fantasies of most of the women and a good number of men on the force, a crowd of whom had assembled to see Philip emerging from the pool like a triumphant sea god, rivulets of water sluicing down his sculpted torso, tight wet pants concealing almost nothing. “Theirs too.”

 Philip had the good graces to duck his head, embarrassed. He knew what he looked like naked, or nearly so. Enough people had admired him over the years.

“Well. Erm. More couscous?”

 “No, thank you.” Pushing away his plate, Sherlock looked around at the much-cleaned kitchen, the heavy cooking pot - was that his? John’s? Had Philip brought it? He presumed he’d deleted _cooking implements_ from his Mind Palace - and Philip sitting across from him, his usually-intelligent face gone slightly dopey with wine and affection. Sherlock supposed he should make an effort, as they say. “This was nice. Shall I…do the washing up?”

Philip snorted. “I know what that means. No, I’ll clean up, you go get ready for bed. As fantastic as you look in that suit, love, I’m ready to see you out of it.” The endearment fell from his lips almost defiantly; he stressed the word _love_ and seemed to wait for Sherlock to respond.

But what could Sherlock say? _You’re not allowed to love me. I’m unlovable, impossible, a sociopath. You know I’ll never love you back. Do you think I should lie, that hollow words will make you feel better? Must I repeat myself?_

No. Sherlock simply said, “Thank you, Philip,” and disappeared into his bedroom. He needn’t look back to see how Philip’s expression fell.

Philip seemed not to be in the mood to be fucked. That was fine with Sherlock, who really would’ve preferred to be left alone with back issues of the _Journal of Apicultural Science_ and his thoughts. However, in the interest of _making an effort_ Sherlock let himself be thoroughly snogged and then manhandled into a position of mutual fellatio, on his back with Philip’s already-engorged penis immediately thrusting roughly down his throat. Sherlock struggled to maintain his own erection.

Pulling off with a wet slurp, Philip asked huskily, “You’re not feeling like sixty-nine?”

“Mmm?” He slid his lips off of Philip, tipped his head to the side and peered up at Philip’s face, trying to ignore the turgid genitals now mashed into his neck. “What? Ohh,” Sherlock said, as a mental image of that number transposed over what they were doing. He must have deleted the term, and his brain was clearly sluggish from the wine. Or from its being partially sucked out through his cock, as Philip had attacked him like a drowning man, with Sherlock’s penis his last chance at air. “No, it’s fine. I’m just…a little sensitive tonight…”

“All right, I’ll go slower. But I want you,” Philip said, and he sounded angry, though he was a bit more gentle as he sucked Sherlock in.

Taking Philip back into his mouth, Sherlock searched his Mind Palace for images that would allow him to get off quickly. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy sex. But Philip’s inexplicable feelings…and this encroaching emotional entanglement – that was why he’d always avoided relationships.

 Which brought him back, of course, to John.

 He imagined it was John’s cock in his mouth, and at the thought he moaned. Sherlock slid his hands from Philip’s hips to his arse, encouraging Philip’s thrusts as Sherlock sucked, stroking greedily with his tongue. What would John taste like? What sounds would he make? Vividly picturing John enveloping him – thin lips, blue eyes, compact body, strong calloused hands touching him – Sherlock writhed, suddenly very, very aroused. Feeding off his reaction, Philip sped up his pistoning hips, groaning and practically choking Sherlock on his cock. Would John fill him like that? Would Sherlock feel him, rough and sweating, groaning above him, bollocks tightening, as Sherlock gasped for air when he could and plunged himself desperately into John’s mouth and oh, oh, he was falling, he was coming…John…

And after sucking Sherlock dry Philip abruptly pulled out of his mouth, and kneeling by Sherlock’s head, took himself in hand for a half a dozen rough strokes…and came all over Sherlock’s face and neck.

 “Oh,” Sherlock said after a moment, blinking semen out of his eyes. “That was…unexpected.”

Flopping onto his back, Philip caught his breath. “Sorry,” he said. He did not sound sorry. In fact, he sounded remarkably cross for someone who’d just orgasmed quite spectacularly all over his boyfriend’s face.

Sherlock sighed. This was so not his area. He rummaged on the floor and came up with the abandoned top sheet, methodically wiping ejaculate off his eyelids and cheeks.

“You missed a little. In your hair,” Philip said. “Now you’ll really need to wash these sheets.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied noncommittally. While he liked his Consulting Detective clothes to be immaculate – his uniform, his armor – the pajamas he wore and his sheets were a different story. He didn’t really care one way or another.

“Seriously. Or…or you could just move in with me and have my cleaning service take care of it all.” Philip was trying to sound casual but his heartrate and body language belied the offhanded way he spoke. “I don’t know why you insist on living in this grotty old flat. There’s plenty of room at my place.”

“How many times will we have this same conversation?” Sherlock asked quietly. “I happen to like this _grotty old flat_ , as you call it. And anyway, I’m impossible to live with.”

“You lived with John.”

“Yes.” And Sherlock left it at that. What more was there to say?

Philip sat up and started fishing on the floor for his pants. “Well. I have an early start. I guess I’d better go home.”

“Philip…” Sherlock sat, too, feeling wrong-footed and uncomfortable. “I…I’m sorry…”

“No, it’s all right. You warned me. You’ve never led me on.” Shaking his head, Philip pulled on his trousers and shirt, fastened up his belt. “I just…I should get going…unless you want to, to talk…?”

Oh God. No.

And Philip must have read Sherlock’s panicked expression because he nodded, unhappy awareness writ large on his handsome features. “Right.  Of course not. We can talk about string theory, and relative velocity, and…and the sodding rate of decomposition at temperatures above forty degrees centigrade, but heaven forbid we have one bloody conversation about _us_.”

Philip left, banging the door behind him. Sherlock started at the periodic table on the wall for few defeated moments before getting himself into the shower and scrubbing out the semen that was matting his hair. He changed into his most comfortable, threadbare t-shirt and pajama bottoms, and settled onto the couch with his Polish bee-keeping journals and a cup of tea. _This_ , he thought, _this is why I avoid relationships_. And, firmly pushing visions of an indispensable blogger out of his mind, he immersed himself in his research.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, this was going to be the last chapter but then it spiraled out of my control! How is it that the characters in my head have minds of their own?

_I must be changing_ , Sherlock thought the next morning. He was still on the couch, the untouched cup of tea cold and filmy, less work done than he’d expected for all the hours spent with his apiculture journals. A few months previous and it wouldn’t have bothered him in the least that Philip was upset. But now it distracted him, like an itch he couldn’t reach. He peered at the mantle – cleared of skull and detritus now, with a framed picture of him with Philip, one taken in Regent’s Park by a joyful Mummy when she and Father were visiting London. Philip looked positively radiant in the photograph, fit and happy, his arm slung around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock looked pleased, too; not quite as happy but certainly…content. And that’s how he felt – if not outright happy, he was content with the situation. As much so as he’d ever be in a relationship with another person who wasn’t….

He’d just stop there.

He texted Philip:

_I’m sorry. Are you all right? –SH_

The reply was almost immediate:

_Doing better. Bit embarrassed about my strop last night._

_I understand. Everything. Including if you no longer wish to see me. –SH_

(…)

(…)

Finally:

_Is that what you want?_

_No. It’s not. You? – SH_

_No. Can I come over? I don’t have class until eleven._

_Yes. –SH_

_I’ll be there within the hour._

Sherlock changed out of the ratty pajamas. He thought about changing the sheets, too, but didn’t know if there were any clean ones and he really couldn’t be arsed. Instead he shut the bedroom door and tidied up the sitting room. He heard Mrs. Hudson letting in Philip below (“My it’s early! But I’m glad you’re back, dear, I heard the doors slamming last night and thought, _Gracious, the boys are having a little domestic_ , but you go up there and make that young man apologize to you, I know he can be difficult but you two are so lovely together, I haven’t seen Sherlock this calm since…well, in such a long time. Try not to be too noisy with the making up, that’s a good lad. Oh, I think my scones are burning! Ta!”).

Sherlock went to meet him at the top of the stairs.

“I’m difficult,” Sherlock said by way of greeting. “Even Mrs. Hudson says so.”

Philip took Sherlock in his arms. He stroked Sherlock’s hair, dusting light kisses on his cheeks and nose and lips. Resting his forehead against Sherlock’s, he peered into those gray-green eyes and said, “You’re worth it.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Sherlock,” Philip sighed. “Can we sit down?”

They settled on the couch, Philip not letting go of Sherlock’s hand. He kissed Sherlock more, as Sherlock tried to understand why. Philip wasn’t aroused. He wasn’t angry like last night, but he wasn’t interested in sex, either. It was kissing just for its own sake. Why?

“Why are you kissing me?”

“What?”

“Usually kissing is a precursor to sex. But your breathing isn’t accelerated. Your pupils aren’t dilated. You seem…sad, distressed somehow, not aroused. Yet you’re kissing me anyway. Why?”

Philip stroked his cheek. “Because I love you, Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looked down at the hand that was still entwined with Philip’s. “Why?”

“Why do I love you? Sherlock. You’re amazing. Brilliant, sexy. Never, ever boring.”

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “But I’m not _lovable_.” Not the way John was – everyone had loved him immediately. Women wanted to date him, take him home to their families, marry him; men wanted to sit at the pub with him over a pint, discussing mindless sports and politics. Not the way Philip was, even; he saw the way people’s eyes followed Philip, the desire in them. Philip filled a room. The combination of his fit body and handsome face, his charisma and charm and confidence…it was almost the opposite of the disgust with which Sherlock was greeted, the name-calling, muttering – sometimes shouting - of _freak_ and _psychopath_.

Philip huffed a laugh. “Well, I love you anyway. What does that say about me? I find you lovable. I want to be with you, in every way you’ll let me. Can we keep going? Will you try?”

“I am trying, you know. This really isn’t my area. I don’t…I may not be able to…to reciprocate the way you want.”

“I think…I _hope_ …that you just need some more time. You’re clearly still getting over John.” John’s name on Philip’s tongue sent a jolt of unease through Sherlock, but he nodded anyway. Be agreeable – _pretend you’re worthy_ … _mon dieu_ he was trying. Philip continued, “Let’s keep going, okay? I’ll try not to pressure you about moving in together, or…or saying anything you’re not ready to.” He slid closer to Sherlock on the couch, whispering roughly in his ear, “But I’m still going to love you, Sherlock. And…and I want to _make love_ to you, to _take you_. I want you to be _mine_.”

Sherlock swallowed. He didn’t need deductive genius to know what Philip meant. Was this the bargain he had to strike? He’d only ever pictured John taking him, penetrating him, _making love_ to him…all of the sentimental nonsense as well as the physical acts. He’d already let Philip invade him in so many ways, body and mind; what was one more? Perhaps this was what Sherlock needed in order to compartmentalize John into a small, locked room in his Mind Palace, relegate him to someone from Sherlock’s past instead of a constant, hovering presence in his thoughts. Nothing would ever erase John – he was undeletable. Was it possible to make him less significant? If anyone could help with that, it was Philip. Philip sitting there cockily in John’s place on the sofa; Philip with his good looks and the arrogance that comes from being both intelligent and perpetually _wanted_ , confident that Sherlock will eventually love him back. It was worth a try. Just transport, after all. His body had endured much worse. At last Sherlock nodded, and surprise flitted across Philip’s features before he leaned back, pleased. Excited. Then he practically flew at Sherlock and kissed him again, this time with arousal. Intent.

“Tonight?” He murmured in between hungry kisses that invaded Sherlock’s mouth with his tongue, a prelude of acts to come. “Is that too soon? God, I want you, Sherlock. You drive me mad.”

“Tonight,” Sherlock agreed, uncharacteristically meek, permitting himself to go pliant, his mouth soft and welcoming under Philip’s pressing need.

“Or we could do it right now,” Philip breathed, tilting back Sherlock’s neck and sucking at the pale length of it. “I don’t want to wait…”

_No no no_ , the neurons fired in Sherlock’s brain. _Not ready, not yet_. “It will be better later,” he said, extricating himself from the licks and bites assailing his neck. “We’ll have more time tonight. And I need to…prepare…”

“Don’t prepare too much,” Philip warned. “I want the privilege. Of opening you, Sherlock. Stretching you. Seeing you like that, ready for me. You can’t know how much I’ve wanted it.”

“All…alright.”

Philip’s smile was incandescent. “In that case I’d better go now. You make it difficult to leave, my love, but I’m really, really looking forward to coming back tonight. I’ll see you after my classes.”

“Yes. Tonight,” Sherlock said, and kissed a radiant Philip, watched his jubilant step as he let himself out of the flat, listened to his lolloping footfalls retreating down the stairs.

Sherlock flopped onto his back on the couch, hands steepled under his chin. Thinking.

He had to try. To try and silence the voices in his head that called him a freak. Unlovable. To disprove “Alone protects me,” the way that John once tried to with his swift and firm, “No.”

John.

Maybe this was what he needed, finally, to love someone besides John Watson; one complex, compact man who somehow – still – commanded Sherlock’s entire world.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I found this such a difficult chapter to write...
> 
> Un-beta'd, so please let me know if there are typos or inconsistencies. Thanks again for reading a pre-Johnlock fic!

It had been years since Sherlock had had anything up his arse. And unless he’d deleted some violation from when he was high, it had only been his own fingers, lying on his own bed, listening to John bedding one of his many women a flight above. Scenes in his mind that burned him with a scorching, erotic shame: his hopeless longing and vivid, pornographic fantasies about his only friend. His _not gay_ flatmate, fucking audibly in the bedroom overhead, as Sherlock had breached himself with fingers and imagined it was John thrusting into him, until he’d writhed helplessly on the bed and climaxed spectacularly, his other hand shoved in his mouth to muffle his ecstatic cries.

Well.

Now it was going to be Philip, and he’d better get himself ready.

Philip had told him not to prepare too much but Sherlock was having none of that. After Philip had joyfully sprung down the steps and out of the flat, Sherlock lay on the couch, organizing his thoughts. When all was categorized and filed away to perfection he changed the rumpled, crusty sheets and scrubbed himself clean in the shower, retreating back to his bed with some fresh towels and a bottle of lubricant. Although Philip preferred his own immaculate and stylish flat, Sherlock felt - viscerally – that this needed to be done at 221B. His usually-analytic mind shied away from the reasons why.

How many fingers would he need to prepare himself for Philip’s sizeable penis? The stretch from even one felt odd and invasive. Sherlock sighed. It was going to be a long afternoon.

         ***

Sherlock heard Philip taking the steps two at a time, still eager all those hours later. The front door flung open and banged closed; the click of the lock and the double thunk of Philip’s shoes hitting the floor. _Indian takeaway_ , he thought, judging by the scent; _from the place that puts cardamom pods in the rice._

“Sherlock? I’m here! Just putting food away.” The takeaway went into the kitchen – some in the refrigerator, naan and samosas on the counter to stay crisp. Sherlock remained silent, on the bed. Waiting. He heard Philip washing his hands and moving through the flat. “Sherlock? You here?” A hint of anxiety had crept into his voice.

When Philip appeared in the doorway to the bedroom Sherlock turned his head, just barely, to meet his lover’s eyes. He’d arranged himself artfully, naked save for his blue dressing gown open and pooling silkily around him as he lounged on the sheets. One knee up and canted invitingly to the side, he was only half-hard but his message was startlingly clear. Arching his back a little, tilting his hips, he said, in the deep voice he knew was most effective, “Philip. Welcome. I think you should shut the door.”

“Oh god,” Philip breathed, otherwise speechless and struck briefly still, before he burst into a flurry of uncoordinated motion, tripping over his own feet as he nudged the door closed, tried to pull his shirt over his head without undoing the buttons, and started peeling off his socks all at the same time. Sherlock watched, fascinated, as his usually-suave and composed lover was reduced to an awkward schoolboy, clumsily flinging off clothing and tumbling desperately onto the bed. “Oh god, Sherlock. You have no idea how much I want you.”

“Mmm. No, in fact, I do,” Sherlock murmured, taking in Philip’s dilated pupils and accelerated breathing. “As you requested, I didn’t prepare myself much.” Now that was a blatant lie but, judging by Philip’s face, an effective one. “So I suggest you get down to it.” Nodding toward his nether regions, Sherlock shifted his legs a bit farther apart, raised his eyebrows, and waited. It didn’t take long.

Philip practically dove down his body, kissing-licking-sucking, pulling Sherlock’s knees up and latching his mouth onto Sherlock’s arsehole.

“Oh! Oooh…” It was pleasant, after all the clinical probing and stretching he’d done to himself that afternoon. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to submit to the transport, to enjoy the sensations without deducing or analyzing anything. Without dredging up old memories, old longing. Though it was as if his mind was at war with itself; he willed his body to relax into Philip’s incredibly talented ministrations and allow – for once – there to be only two of them in the bed. Old habits, however, die hard: flickers of John Watson (perfectly imperfect John Watson, rimming him frantically, desperate to fuck him…) continued to spark behind his eyelids, and Sherlock groaned as much in frustration as in desire. Tugging on Philip’s hair, he said, “That’s enough, Philip. I want your fingers now.” Might as well get this moving along.

Philip licked his way back up Sherlock’s body and into his mouth, shoving his tongue inside for a rough kiss. For someone who was so fastidious in other areas, Philip was surprisingly dirty during sex. Knowing what his lover wanted, Sherlock ground against him and moaned again, allowing Philip to take his mouth and body. If only he could surrender his mind…his heart…

In spite of his afternoon’s preparations Sherlock was still tight, and Philip said as much as he worked lube-slicked fingers slowly in and out. “God, Sherlock, I don’t want to hurt you,” he breathed, but his body language was communicating something entirely different. Hmm, that was interesting. The first flare of real desire sparked in Sherlock’s groin.

He reached his arms out. “Come here,” he rumbled, so low, knowing how that affected Philip. “I want you.”

Philip was practically shaking with need as he wiped his fingers on the towel Sherlock had left next to the bed. “You may want to turn over,” he said in a rush. “Easier on you that way…”

Sherlock shook his head: no. “I want to see you.” It was much more difficult to read someone if they weren’t face to face. “Just do it. Fuck me.”

“Oh god.” Philip was falling apart. It was obvious he simply wanted to shove inside Sherlock and take him, to hell with etiquette and care. He trembled as he lined himself up and tried to go slowly, repeating himself: “I don’t want to hurt you…”

“Nnnggghhh,” groaned Sherlock, playing it up, the grimace of pain on his face only half-real. “Ohh, I feel you stretching me, Philip. I want you. I want your huge cock to fill me up…” Was that too much? Did he sound like a bad porno?

No, clearly not. Philip was beyond words now as he bent Sherlock almost in half and began the slow push-pull push-pulling slide into Sherlock’s snug arse. Philip watched their bodily connection and, through partly-lidded eyes, Sherlock watched Philip’s face, cataloguing and deducing as they fucked. The sensation was odd, awkward but not altogether unpleasant, and Sherlock thought he could allow his body to pretend-writhe in discomfort while settling the essential parts of himself someplace more comfortable in his Mind Palace and waiting for Philip to get off. _Simple_ , he thought almost smugly. He wondered why he’d avoided this particular sex act for so long.

“Sherlock,” Philip choked out. “I want you to…you need…” With a low hiss he pulled out, visibly collecting himself. “I want to make this good for you,” he growled, and man-handled Sherlock into a different position: hauling him over to the edge of the bed so Philip could stand while Sherlock lay on his back, legs wrapped around Philip’s torso. Re-slicking himself with lubricant, Philip slid his hands around Sherlock’s plush arse cheeks, spread him open, and slowly entered him again.

“Oh!” It was different this time. The curve of Philip’s cock brushed his prostate, shooting jolts of pleasure throughout his entire body. Soon Philip’s slippery hand wrapped around Sherlock’s prick and began gentle, unhurried ministrations, working him over both inside and out. “ _Oh_.” Shutting his eyes, Sherlock tossed his head back and – almost in spite of himself – surrendered.

“Philip,” he moaned, before he could stop himself. The sensations gathered inside him, the sense of being taken, overwhelmed. Entered, breeched, invaded: defenses suddenly stripped away, his own vulnerability and…and _sentiment_ washing over, engulfing him, like the waves of a rough sea.

“You’re so tight,” Philip breathed as he sped up, fucking Sherlock with fervent intensity now, jerking his cock in counterpoint, braced on one elbow over him on the bed and breathing raggedly into his ear. “You feel amazing. Have you ever…is this…?”

“No,” Sherlock panted, needing to shut his eyes against the look on Philip’s face. “Never before…”

“Oh god. Oh god, I love you so much, Sherlock, I love you and need you and…and you need me, too. I can feel it, how much you want my cock…” Philip’s whispers twisted their way into Sherlock’s psyche. The gates of his Mind Palace unexpectedly blown open, as if Philip had stormed the castle and claimed the territory for his own.

Sherlock tossed his head back on the bed, completely overtaken: the rhythmic pounding to his arse and wet-hot slide on his cock; Philip’s gasped-out words and powerful body pining him to the bed. Sherlock was helpless, yielding; and for once he didn’t fight it. He huffed out embarrassing, high-pitched _oh oh ohs_ with each of Philip’s thrusts, and felt his orgasm begin to build not only in his tightening bollocks, but in his mind as well.

“Come for me, baby,” Philip rasped. “I can’t last much longer. You’re so tight, so hot…let go, Sherlock.” He sped up his fist, twisting at the head of Sherlock’s cock and, at the same time, fucking even harder, deeper. Sherlock felt it sparking through him, an electrical current from the tips of his toes to the top of his scalp. He was on fire. Enflamed. “I got you, baby. Come for me.”

Sherlock came: the sensation whiting out his thoughts, no brain and all transport as he writhed and pulsed and cried out, aftershocks wracking his body as Philip thrusted erratically and climaxed inside of him, calling out his name and absurd endearments, groaning and panting like an animal.

Sherlock lost some time after that. When he was next sentient, Philip was spooning his body from behind. Somehow Philip must have cleaned them both up; perhaps Sherlock had moved himself, or maybe Philip had, because when Sherlock’s brain came back online again he was right-side up on the bed, curled in a foetal position, his head mashed into the pillows and the covers tucked up practically to his chin.Gently Philip kissed his cheek, his neck, and settled against his back with a drawn-out – and ridiculously contented-sounding – sigh. Enough of Sherlock’s consciousness roused to bristle at the sound. “You called me _baby_ ,” he said, aiming to scoff but his voice, partly muffled by the pillow, was still weak and wavery.

“Mmm. I did.” Each word practically dripped with affection and amusement. “And I might call you baby again. Or would you prefer _sweetheart_? Darling. Honey.”

Sherlock tried again. “You got off on the idea of hurting me a little. It turned you on when I said you were so big you were stretching me, filling me up…”

“Good deduction, as always,” Philip responded, the smile apparent in his voice. “My first lovers all reacted like that to my size; I think it created a little bit of a kink there. But I could tell you weren’t really in pain, _darling_. I knew you wouldn’t put up with anything you didn’t like.” Wrapping his arms more tightly around Sherlock, Philip murmured, “It’s all right to like this, you know. I understand that it’s all different for you…but you’re allowed to be happy, Sherlock. You’re allowed to…to relax into a relationship.”

 _He was going to say “to love,”_ Sherlock knew, but he let it go. He could try. It wasn’t John. But John was gone, chased away by Sherlock’s hatefulness and dishonesty. “I did like it,” he admitted. “I thought…I thought the physical part would be difficult, but it was the emotions…” he couldn’t finish, though he could feel Philip nodding, brushing against his hair on the pillow.

“It’s emotionally draining, being penetrated. I know. Thank you for letting me. I’m…honored, Sherlock. And god, I’m so in love with you.”

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. He said the most he could. “Thank you. For loving me. For taking such good care of me.”Lips brushed neck again. “Sleep, my darling. You need it. We can eat later.”

It was better, for once, not to think too much. He slept.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, it's been months - sorry! 
> 
> I got wrapped up in NaNoWriMo, but I did it - 50,000 words in 30 days, huzzah! Also trying to find an agent or publisher for an original work...wish me luck!
> 
> And now, back to Sherlock...
> 
> (As always, please let me know if you find any typos! Kisses <3 )

The hotel, _Il Metropole Venezia_ , was ridiculously romantic. Lounging on their brocade-draped bed, Sherlock shoved a decorative velvet pillow behind his neck and gazed out the window at water and sky, at delicate arched balconies on narrow neoclassical buildings, like tiered wedding cakes in the hazy distance. The room itself was a cinematic version of an opium den. Having been to no less than seven genuine opium dens in his life—five for cases and two for less lawful pleasures—Sherlock scoffed at the rococo opulence: flocked wallpaper, dramatic swags and tassels, smoky mirrors reflecting back the dark wood of the room and long, white bodies of two naked men sprawled across silky sheets. Yet he was able to ignore his distain of _romance_ and _luxury_ , the call of his laptop, his phone and the cases that undoubtedly awaited. Sherlock stayed in bed.

Idly he listened to the lapping water of the lagoon, rhythmic calls of gondoliers and the occasional passing roar of a vaporetto, shouts from clumps of tourists, voices American and French and German. Letting his eyes drift over Philip’s sleeping form, Sherlock admired his lover’s muscular back; his tapered waist and sculpted backside. He could be one of the Sansovino statues in the piazza, though Philip was more fit than Bacchus and more boyishly-slender than Mars. The tension that regularly tightened his shoulders had relaxed, not only because of sleep, Sherlock thought.

Philip was absurdly happy here.

And Sherlock allowed him this. He’d let Philip take his hand as they strolled the promenade along the Riva degli Schiavoni, poking around market stalls and sampling the pastries and confections. Sherlock had made no protest when Philip picked out a colorful Murano glass tree, saying, “This is perfect for your mantel! We’ll get rid of that dusty old skull you insist on keeping around. Add some family photos and make the place warmer.”

Sherlock hadn’t protested out loud, though internally he grumbled about the necessity of keeping his dusty old skull and not needing to make 221B _warmer_ , it was fine as is, _thankyouverymuch_. He was learning the art of being a Good Boyfriend. Docile, ordinary, almost dull. It was pretense but seemed to please Philip. _Is this what I need to do to maintain a relationship?_ Sherlock thought. Perhaps this is what everyone else did, but Sherlock simply hadn’t bothered before. And when had he started caring about everyone else? Thinking back on the many times John had said _Not Good_ ; the years of being called a freak and a psychopath: surprisingly, it didn’t kill him to make an effort. He was being less _Sherlocky_. Maybe that was a good thing.

That night they dined on black pasta with scallops and artichokes at a restaurant filled with locals. They shared a buttery pinot bianco and lingered over strawberry panna cotta. “I wish I could feed you this from my fingers,” Philip murmured breathlessly into his ear. “I want to lick the cream off your lips.” Obviously it excited him to imagine shocking the locals. Sherlock could have disabused him of the notion—there were just as many gays and lesbians here as at home in London—but since Philip was clearly getting off on feeling indecent, Sherlock simply raised an eyebrow and smiled as provocatively as he could manage.

“Why don’t you wait until we’re alone?” he suggested.

“What I’m going to do to you…” Philip said, shaking his head, and he signaled for the waiter and paid the bill, never once taking his eyes from Sherlock.

 The serpentine Venetian streets were dark on the way back to their hotel, and in a secluded alleyway Philip pushed Sherlock up against a wall and kissed him hard, all tongue and teeth and hot intent. “There’s something new I’d like to try…” he said, his voice rough and low.

Sherlock felt a prickle of anxiety. Searching the Mind Palace for clues, Sherlock wondered what they had left to explore. He thought they’d already performed every sex act possible with the body parts the two of them possessed. Sherlock couldn’t deny that he’d enjoyed almost all of their creative attempts to date, so perhaps whatever it was would be interesting. And certainly Philip had allowed Sherlock to experiment on him. Their early months together, with Sherlock completely new to sex, had been filled with experimentation, with “What would happen if…?” and pushing Philip to the far limits of his pleasure. With only a hint of trepidation, Sherlock nodded and didn’t probe further. A voice in the back of his mind chided that he was practically _domesticated_ these days, but the Good Boyfriend would wait and see.

Back in the lobby of the Metropole Venezia, Sherlock held his breath as Philip merely nodded at the dignified concierge (gay, has one short-haired black retriever and is writing a novel on his days off) and the beautiful desk clerk with her tastefully low-cut blouse (whose eyes followed the two of them as they walked past; unquestionably she’d join them if they’d so much as hinted, her shift ended at midnight). Sherlock hissed out a barely-audible sigh of relief when Philip pulled him, possessively, into the elevator, just the two of them alone, thankful that a threesome with a fit concierge or, especially, a woman, wasn’t the _new thing_ on Philip’s mind (Sherlock didn’t think he could enjoy being with a woman, no matter how objectively attractive she was). Philip pressed close to him in the elevator and, when they arrived at their floor, hurried him down the hallway, nodding inattentive _buona nottes_ to the hotel patrons they passed.

Philip shut the door to their ridiculously romantic room with a decisive _click_ , locking the deadbolt and flipping on one of the soft bedside lights. He drew the curtains and pulled the lush spread off the bed, dumping it unceremoniously onto one of the ornate brocade chairs. Only then did he turn to face Sherlock, his eyes so intent Sherlock could practically feel their weight on his body. “What I’m going to do to you…” Philip whispered again, and strode into Sherlock’s space, crowding him against the locked door and kissing him fiercely. One hand snaked into Sherlock’s curls while the other reached around to cup his arse. Philip pressed himself into Sherlock, greedy for his mouth, his body, and already erect.

In the face of Philip’s need Sherlock willed himself to let go. After months of Sherlock’s being the one in control, he was discovering that he could cope with submissiveness at times; Philip so enjoyed a yielding and pliant Sherlock – so different than the one shown to the rest of the world. He was learning that it was all right, sometimes, to surrender. Sherlock relaxed into the onslaught and tried to let go. Philip’s tongue in his mouth, Philip’s hands roaming and grasping his body. Willing his mind to go blank, he focused instead on the way his body responded, growing hard as Philip snogged and groped and frotted him fiercely. Breathing like he’d been running, Philip pulled off his mouth and buried his face in Sherlock’s hair, working his way down to lick and bite the so-sensitive stretch of skin between neck and shoulder. Sherlock cried out, a soft “ _oh_ ” of surprise and desire.

“I want,” Philip said, his voice low, needy. “I want…Will you trust me?”

Trust. It was difficult, but Philip had earned it. Sherlock nodded but didn’t speak, worried his voice would break.

“Oh god,” Philip breathed in his ear. “Sherlock, what’s your safeword?”

With a suspicion now of what Philip intended, Sherlock slid himself to the side, putting a little more space between him and his lover. “I don’t have one,” he said. “But if…But I trust you.” It was so difficult to say those words. The last person he had trusted… _no, don’t even let your mind venture there_. Sherlock was changing. He _had_ changed. There was a new man in his life, a man who wanted him. Loved him. Not like… _no, don’t say his name_. “Vernet. We can use Vernet as a safeword.”

The smile that lit up Philip’s face – the mischievous, almost predatory smile – was worth the uncertainty Sherlock felt. For the sake of forgetting John…no, he’d never forget. For the sake of simply making John less of Sherlock’s _everything_ …he would submit.

If his transport allowed him to.

 

 

 

[Some pictures of the hotel, Il Metropole Venezia - in particular their wrought iron headboard, featured prominently in the next chapter (wink wink, nudge nudge).]

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My chemistry degree is from Wikipedia University. Apologies if the equations make no sense!

It was wrought iron filigree, deceptively delicate.

Having first guided him down onto the bed, Philip pressed Sherlock’s wrists against the metal headboard and murmured, mischief in his voice, “Stay.”

Sherlock stayed. He grasped two of the cold iron spirals behind him and held on. Closing his eyes, he willed himself grounded by the tactile sense of three-dimensional metal bars digging into his damp palms. He waited. Not Sherlock’s strong suit. Biting back an impatient, only slightly-anxious sigh, he opened up the chemistry suite in his Mind Palace and strolled through, surveying the compounds of iron: ferrous oxide, FeO; ferric oxide, Fe2O3; and ferrosoferric oxide, Fe3O4. Pausing at a computer in his lab, Sherlock began retrieving the standard reduction principals of the Fe3+ ion:

[Fe(H2O)6]3+

| 

⇌ [Fe(H2O)5(OH)]2+ \+ H+

| 

_[K](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Equilibrium_constant)_ = 10 −3.05 mol dm−3  
  
---|---|---  
  
[Fe(H2O)5(OH)]2+

| 

⇌ [Fe(H2O)4(OH)2]+ \+ H+

| 

_K_ = 10 −3.26 mol dm−3  
  
---|---|---  
  
2 [Fe(H2O)6]3+

| 

⇌ [Fe(H  
2O)  
4(OH)]4+  
2 \+ 2 H+ \+ 2 H2O…

| 

_K_ = 10 −2.91 mol dm−3  
  
---|---|---  
  
“Sherlock. Where are you? Sherlock!”

Sherlock opened his eyes and blinked, reluctantly letting go of the cationic chemistry in his mind. Looming over him, Philip looked amused rather than irritated. He wore nothing but tight, dark gray pants and—Sherlock was relieved to see—his erection hadn’t flagged. Sherlock’s foray into his mind hadn’t ruined the mood.

“Where’d you go?”

“Standard reduction potentials for iron ions,” Sherlock rumbled, embarrassed.

“Of course. Of course that’s where you went.” Philip climbed into the bed and lay next to him, curling along his side and brushing Sherlock’s arms soothingly. Sherlock’s hands still clutched the headboard’s whorls of wrought iron. “We don’t have to do this if it frightens you.”

“What? It doesn’t frighten me. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Philip huffed a small laugh. “Okay,” he whispered directly into Sherlock’s ear. “But tell me if it does. Promise me? Yes? You’ll use your safeword?”

Sherlock nodded.

“Excellent,” Philip said. “My beautiful boy. You’re being so good for me. Focus that intellect on me, my darling boy. I’m going to make you feel things you’ve never felt before. So humor me, love. Tell me your safeword again?”

“Vernet,” Sherlock said. His mouth was dry and he shivered, in spite of the warmth of the room. In spite of himself.

“Very good,” Philip said, his voice rough with intent. Plucking a silk necktie from where he’d left it draped on the bedside table, he pulled it taught in the space between them and deftly tied Sherlock’s wrists together, against the solid coils of the headboard. Philip sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork. And his lover. “There. Look at you. Gorgeous.” Slowly he ran a hand down Sherlock’s still-clad torso, pausing at the fastening of Sherlock’s trousers. “Look at you. Bound. Helpless. _Mine_.”

Sherlock did not contradict him. He did not open his mouth to point out the many, many ways he could have extricated himself from one paltry, slippery, inadequately-knotted silk binding, and disabled Philip. ( _Helpless, indeed!_ he thought derisively.) Nor did he dispute the possessive “ _mine_.” A part of him regarded the words with contempt. They were laughable. Wrong.

 And yet.

And yet they thrilled him. A (very-different) part of his mind went still when Philip’s low voice spoke those controlling, greedy words. The sheer _want_ of them electrified him.

He was _desired_. He was _loved_.

So what if he needed to be ( _spuriously_ ) silenced, bound, immobilized? So what if he needed to be less himself, less Not Good, the docile boyfriend, quiet and dull?

No, not dull. It wasn’t dull when Philip began to unbutton Sherlock’s tight shirt, spreading the sides open to reveal Sherlock’s panting chest. (Panting? Why was he panting? He was just _lying there_.) Nor when Philip traced his fingers along the muscles of Sherlock’s chest and stomach, when he leaned over to lick and bite and suck Sherlock’s nipples into his mouth.

Sherlock gasped at the sensation. Maybe he’d drunk too much wine. Maybe he was brainwashed by the opulence of the hotel, by the splendor of their meal, by the sheer seductiveness of Venice itself. By Philip, and his undeniably enticing body.

He saw how people looked at them, together. Women, especially. Gay men. Bi men, too, and even the occasional heterosexual man, entranced in spite of himself. They were striking together. He could see them now, as if from a distance: golden-hued Philip, hard in his pants, unbuttoning the placket of Sherlock’s trousers, pulling them down and off. Sherlock’s pants, though, he only pushed as far as Sherlock’s thighs, leaving him partly-dressed and fully exposed. Fully aroused.

Tugging at the silk ostensibly binding his wrists to the iron, Sherlock moaned, shaking his head from side to side as Philip skimmed warm hands up his erection and slid the tip of Sherlock’s penis into his mouth. He sucked the head gently, his tongue darting over the slit. It was too much and too little, all at the same time: overwhelming to be at Philip’s mercy, surrendering the way he had the first time Philip penetrated him. And yet Sherlock wanted more—more of his cock in Philip’s mouth. More suction, more of his hands, more…everything.

“Philip,” he moaned. “I want…”

Popping his lips off Sherlock’s cock, Philip darted out one last lick and then raised his eyes to meet Sherlock’s. “Good,” he breathed. “Whatever you want, love, I’m going to give to you. But first…first I’m going to _take_.”

He yanked off his own pants, then slid himself up Sherlock’s body until he was positioned with his hands braced on the metal headboard and his legs spread over Sherlock’s face. He dipped his groin down and rubbed his full bollocks against Sherlock’s cheeks, lips, waiting mouth.

( _Waiting mouth_? Why was he opening his lips, licking out his tongue, sucking Philip’s bollocks, desperate for his mouth to be filled? It was inexplicable. Inexcusable. And yet he wanted it.)

“Such a good boy,” Philip said. “I’m going to fill you up. Everywhere. Stretch you, fill you, gag you, until you can think of nothing besides me. No one else, Sherlock. Just me.” Guiding his cock into Sherlock’s open mouth, he murmured, “Hum three descending notes if it’s too much. Nod now if you understand.”

Eyes wide, lips stretched, wrists bound, legs still tangled in his pushed-down black pants: Sherlock nodded.

And Philip proceeded to use him. To fuck his mouth, slow and shallow at first, then gaining speed and depth until the meagre part of Sherlock’s still-functioning mind thought Philip would come down his throat. But his lover pulled back, and off, just in time, catching his ragged breath before he kissed Sherlock passionately, tongue licking into Sherlock’s docile mouth. “So good. So good for me,” he whispered, and worked his way down, down, down, kissing nipples and navel and thighs; pushing Sherlock’s legs and hips up; licking everywhere he could reach around the pushed-down pants that held Sherlock’s legs together.

What was it about the feeling of those black pants, slid partway down his thighs? The indecency of it—half-stripped, his shirt unbuttoned and rucked off his shoulders. The paradoxical exposure of partial-nakedness, dressed and undressed at the same time. The illicitness of clothes half-removed, peeled back to both conceal and reveal.

Being ravished.

That was the word that remained as Philip sucked him down—one, two, three glorious pulls—over too soon before he licked his way farther below, over Sherlock’s bollocks— _oh! That felt magnificent, too!_ —and pushed his wet tongue into Sherlock’s arse.

Ravished.

Helpless.

Desired.

Philip knew, now, exactly how much preparation Sherlock needed. He was ruthless with his tongue, his fingers, slicking and stretching with piercing focus until Sherlock was ready, his knees pushed up practically to his ears and his mind wiped clean of everything besides _want_. Philip knew the correct angle, now, the way to hit Sherlock’s prostate with every slide, until Sherlock’s moans turned to outright wails, to begging, “Please…please Philip…touch me…I need…”

“I love you,” Philip choked out, as he fucked Sherlock relentlessly, taking and taking. “I love you. So desperately. Tell me…tell me that you love me…”

“Philip.” He was off-balance, swept away by sensation. Uncertain. _Ravished_. The words were right there, on the tip of his tongue. He could so easily let them tumble out; and Sherlock's traitorous mind thought them, imagined saying them, the three little words.

Three terrifying words. Untrue, _unfaithful,_ words.

Tears came, instead.

“Philip,” he breathed. “Philip.” And then: “Vernet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaangst. Sorry! But I'll make it up to you, I promise!
> 
> As always, I welcome comments & kudos! Kisses to you xoxo


	12. Chapter 12

In the future, if Sherlock ever needed an example of “Caring is not an advantage,” he could simply recall the post-coital scene in that lavish hotel room in the most romantic city in the world. It was not pretty.

He’d safeworded.

Sherlock had safeworded.

Sherlock, who routinely pushed his body to its limit; who went for days without food and sleep; who’d trained obsessively in martial arts, and survived two overdoses and torture in Serbia, and whose body was mere _Transport_.

Because it wasn’t his body that betrayed him.

Nor his mind, Sherlock thought, his face buried in his hands as he sat hunched on the edge of the bed after Philip had—with furious, stunned haste—ceased fucking him and pulled out, untied him, and retreated across the room, like a bruised boxer returning to his own corner.

Not his mind. It was his heart. His damned _obstinate_ heart.

“Tell me that you love me,” Philip had said. No—he’d demanded it.

Demanded it while he was taking Sherlock, while Sherlock’s wrists were bound, while his cock was pounding into Sherlock’s yielding body; and his words insinuated themselves into Sherlock’s mind, making him think— _maybe_. Maybe he could contemplate those words. Envision a life without John.

And Sherlock broke.

Not even torture had reduced Sherlock to the anguished tears that seeped from his eyes at the notion of speaking those words.

To the wrong man.

Sherlock groaned into his hands, unable to lift his head and look at Philip. He could feel the suppressed misery emanating from Philip, who paced in the corner. One part of his mind catalogued the clothing Philip was pulling on—pants, trousers, shirt—while the other attempted to make sense of these nonsensical, _sentimental_ thoughts.

He couldn’t say "I love you." Not to Philip.

It was ridiculous. Absurd. _Illogical_.

People loved again. People lost spouses to disease and tragic death and desertion—lost the loves of their lives—and found new partners to love.

People said _I love you_ with casual indifference, paying less attention to the words than to their morning cuppa and newspaper.

Once again, however, Sherlock had the proof that he wasn’t like other people. Not wired to love again. Ever.

It was a devastating realization. More so because he thought he’d accepted that years ago. Married to his work, indeed.

His heart belonged to one man, and that man was gone.

***

A bundle of fabric hit him in the head and brought him back.

“Put something on,” Philip said, his voice equal parts anger and concern. “You’re shivering.”

Was he? He was, Sherlock realized. With shaking arms he pulled on the t-shirt Philip had thrown. He pulled his pajama bottoms on, too, and found his dressing gown. Only then did he notice the tears still drying on his cheeks, and he wiped them away with his forearms. Mortified. Filled with self-loathing.

Exhausted, too. He wished he could curl up on the huge, ornate bed and sleep for a week. Sleep and discover this had all been a dream—all of it, everything from the Fall on. That he’d wake and John would once again be in his chair at 221B, fond and amused and scolding, “You slept _forever_ this time. Really, Sherlock, you can’t go without sleep like that! Tea? I’ll make you some toast, too, and you’re going to eat it—no arguments!”

Sherlock’s throat closed once more with bit-back emotion.

Never again. He’d never again see John in that chair, hear that voice, live with the hope that John might, someday, love him too.

Why couldn’t he move past that? Love again? Make another man happy?

But he knew as a fact, now, the way he knew his own name: he wasn’t wired that way. Just as he was wired a genius, and an addict. He would only love once. It was a fact of his Sherlockness. And he’d never hated himself more than at that moment.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Philip said, and he sat down on the bed, putting his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Oh, love.”

Sherlock stiffened.

In spite of himself, Philip chuckled a little: a mirthless half-laugh. “See? Even when we’re arguing….” He held Sherlock against him, comforting.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Sherlock asked. It confused him. Philip should be leaving. Storming out, shouting curses and recriminations.

“Because. I. _Love_. You.” Philip said it slowly, patiently. “Because—god help me—I’m still hoping you’ll come around, Sherlock. You’ve changed. I can see it. You’ve let me in so much. Into your life. Into your body,” he said, and his voice was husky as he breathed the words into Sherlock’s ear.

It was true. He’d changed. Philip had whittled away his defenses. He’d cleaned up the flat, shared more and more of his life. Allowed Philip to do things he’d never thought possible with anyone but John.

But it was much, much easier to give his body than his heart.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, and if he needed any other proof that he was a different man it was the ease with which he spoke those words. “You were so excited…”

“No. It’s my fault,” Philip said. In his hands he worried at the crumpled silk necktie, sacrificed in the name of sexual adventure. “I’m sorry I pushed you. That was unfair. I didn’t mean…I didn’t want to…to _force_ you. Into saying it. I just…” Here he sighed, turning to look at Sherlock. “No one—no partner, I mean—has ever _not_ loved me back.”

Sherlock could see how galling that was to Philip, with his intellect and charm and extraordinary good looks: his bright eyes and sandy hair, rugged chin and broad shoulders, and a smile that had assuredly melted the hearts of dozens of men before Sherlock. He tilted his head rakishly and combed a hand through Sherlock’s tousled curls. Even now, after this horrible scene; after Sherlock’s ridiculous tears and safewording and more tears; even after all that, Philip still expected Sherlock—eventually—to fall passionately in love with him. His misguided self-confidence almost swept Sherlock’s breath away, filling him with both envy and a deep, hopeless despair.

Philip hadn’t reckoned with the stubbornness of Sherlock’s heart.

Wrong-footed and ashamed, Sherlock retreated into viciousness. “You love me helpless underneath you,” he said, and Philip jerked at the venom in his tone. “You want to tie me up and use me, turn me into someone I’m not. But I told you,” he spat out, channeling his self-hatred into fury at Philip. Rage at the entire world, in fact. “ _I told you_. I’m a sociopath. Don’t try to coerce me into professing undying love. It’s contemptible. _Pathetic_.”

He hissed these hateful words, expecting Philip to yell, to punch him, to leave. Yet it was Sherlock who was shaking again. He wished he’d gotten dressed in his suit instead of pajamas, then he could sweep out and find another hotel. And maybe a hit. Just a little cocaine, a tiny bit to take the edge off. But in the blind panic that was still filling his head, he didn’t think he had the wherewithal to dress—not in front of Philip—not with his body trembling and grief overwhelming him.

Years. It was so many years. So many years without John.

When Sherlock’s eyes welled up once again, this time they were mirrored by Philip’s. Philip’s pity. Philip’s understanding, at last.

And it was Philip who held him—when he didn’t deserve to be held. Philip who loved him—when he didn’t deserve to be loved.

*

*

*

(Oh, the heartbreak!

*Sobbing into my little lace hanky*

I'm sorry! You know a happy ending is coming, right?

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now complete!

In the end, it was Philip who left.

Though they’d tried again, after Venice. Sherlock hired a cleaning woman, who came every two weeks and made sure the flat wasn’t an _unsanitary hell-hole_. He put photos on the mantle and took the skull up to Joh—up to the spare bedroom that now served as his office. He hid away the murder and mayhem of his cases, sanitized his life the way Mrs. Morris disinfected his flat, and never mentioned John again.

They saw each other whenever Sherlock wasn’t busy on a case, trading off flats. Philip cooked; Sherlock took them to obscure restaurants with exquisite food. They had sex—lots of it. Creative, inventive sex; though Philip never asked to tie Sherlock up again. They talked, constantly: a steady stream of discourse about science and nature and the criminal mind. Their conversation was as good as the sex. When they argued, it was almost with resignation: the sense that they’d hashed it all out before and were simply going through the motions.

Philip still said “I love you” when they were together, and seemed almost to accept that Sherlock would reply, “Thank you.” Sherlock cared for Philip. It may not have been love, but it was affection. Interest. Lust, as well; though as one year together stretched into two, that cooled slightly—from an open flame to a simmer.

Sherlock could live with this, he realized. Another person in his life. Someone to attend to his transport, make sure he ate and slept and had regular orgasms. Someone who cared about him, even if the “ _him_ ” was a slightly diminished Sherlock, a toned-down and sterilized version of himself. After all, who could love him the way he really was?

So Sherlock—who was so rarely shocked by anything—was blindsided that night when he and Philip sat together on the couch, discussing neonicotinoids and the pollinator strategy to help the bee population, savoring sips of the thirty-year-old Balvenie that had been a gift from a grateful client. They were relaxed, comfortable together. His mind filled with beehives, Sherlock was hardly paying attention to his lover. A mistake.

Out of the blue, it seemed, Philip sat up straighter, squared his shoulders, and asked: “Have you thought about children?”

“What about them?”

Philip raised his eyebrows. “About having them. You know, adopting. Or finding a surrogate.”

Sherlock snorted. “Right. No. You may not have noticed, but I don’t have so much as a houseplant. How would I keep a _child_ alive?”

“You’d learn. You’d be an adult and learn.”

Glancing up from his whisky, Sherlock scanned Philip’s pinched face, the tense set of his jaw, and his accelerated respiration. Realization hit him like a bucket of ice water. He’d let down his guard, and look what happened. “That wasn’t a theoretical question, was it? You want to have _children_.”

“You don’t have to sound like that, like I want a pet crocodile or something…”

“At least a pet crocodile would be interesting! A child, Philip? Really? How _conventional_. You want to be one of those gay couples pushing a pram around, baby-talking utter nonsense and carrying a nappy bag? You’ve seen Mrs. Turner’s ‘married ones’ next door with that little hellion of a nephew they mind two weekends a month. Afterwards they look like they’ve been tortured by Serbian soldiers. Is that what you want? So much for my Work, and your research. No. You want Humpty Dumpty and, and, teddy bears going round and round…”

“Alright. Alright! I hear you. You don’t want children. I was just asking.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You weren’t just asking,” he said.

The silence stretched between them. Sherlock poured more Balvenie into each of their glasses. He caught Philip’s gaze, and held it. “Cheers,” he said, though it sounded anything but cheery.

“Cheers.” Philip drank, clearly steeling himself. “Sherlock.”

“Fine.”

“What?”

“I said fine. It’s obvious what you’re going to say.”

“Brilliant,” Philip said. This time he didn’t mean it in a good way. “Nevertheless, I’m going to say it _out loud_ , in spite of your mind-reading. I want to settle down, Sherlock. That’s my end-game. I want a long-term partner—to get married someday, have a husband. Have a shared life with someone. Maybe even family. If that’s conventional and boring, I’m sorry. That’s what I want. Personally I think it’s really subversive for two men to make a life that way…”

Sherlock snorted.

Philip glared at him for the interruption and continued talking. “And just because you don’t want it doesn’t make it not worthwhile. I know that a person can’t be everything for their partner. But at least I want someone who thinks I’m _the one_. You won’t even live with me, Sherlock. You lived with John but you won’t…” His voice cracked a little, and he put down his drink, reaching for Sherlock’s hands.

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned. “I don’t want to talk about…”

“I know,” Philip said, and the sadness in his voice and the tears in his eyes told Sherlock everything.

This time, he let Philip hold his hands, let him cry. Sherlock’s eyes were dry but still he felt sorrow. Loss. What would he miss? The companionship. The conversations over dinner. The sex. Most of all, though: feeling like he was enough. Not a Freak: a _boyfriend_. Loved. Yet it wasn’t Philip per se he’d miss, and that was really the worst of it. If Philip—beautiful, brilliant, sexy Philip—couldn’t fix him, no one could. No one could make Sherlock whole. There was a John-shaped piece missing from his essential core, and it had walked out of his life, hating him at the end, and never come back.

“You deserve…” Sherlock said. Magnanimously. Trying for selflessness. “You deserve something better. Someone better.”

“There’s no one better than you.”

That was what finally made Sherlock cry. “There is,” he said. “There are. There are people out there who will love you back. And you deserve that, Philip.”

“You do, too. You…I wish you had someone you could love. Again.”

“No.” Sherlock shook his head. “I’m just not wired that way.”

And if they cried together, and kissed on the couch, and had sloppy, sad, farewell sex one last time on the living room rug, it was, perhaps, the closure Philip needed. As much as he’d get, at least, after two years of loving a man who didn’t—who couldn’t—love him back. And Sherlock filed it all away in the mind palace, locked it up, and metaphorically threw away the key. He wouldn’t complete delete _relationships_ and _sex_ and even _making love_ from his memories, but he wouldn’t need them again either, except perhaps for a case.

And then Sherlock was alone again. Which was fine. Alone protected him. He told himself that he’d tried: he’d made himself less Sherlocky for Philip but it was still not enough. He wasn’t enough. Everyone left, eventually. So he might as well just be himself.

He returned to the Work. Lestrade was sympathetic when he discovered that Philip was gone. “Nice bloke,” Lestrade said, and he clasped Sherlock briefly on the shoulder. “Too bad it didn’t work out.”

“Not that we didn’t expect it,” Donovan semi-whispered, loud enough for Sherlock to hear. “What could that hottie have seen in _him_?”

Used to ignoring idiots, Sherlock didn’t bother with cutting replies anymore. So perhaps he had changed, a little.

And the months went by: frenetic cases interspersed with stretches of mind-numbing boredom. No cocaine, though it was a temptation. The thought of Mycroft dragging him back into rehab was enough of a deterrent, so he left his emergency stash under the floorboards, hidden away. Reassuring: it was there if he ever needed it. He didn’t. Not yet.

Mrs. Hudson brought him food he occasionally consumed. Mostly, though, he was alone. Uncaring. Sherlock wrapped _feelings_ back in the chrysalis inside him, imagining them all sealed up under layers and layers of hard, protected skin. He was done with that, and good riddance.

***

It was almost a year since Sherlock and Philip had split up, and what passed for an ordinary day in Sherlock's life. Case he solved in under an hour, dull dull dull paperwork Lestrade insisted on, acrid coffee gulped down at the Met, snide whispers from Anderson and Donovan, whose gnat-like presences he didn’t even acknowledge.

And then: Lestrade’s shutting his office door, and his feigned casualness as he said, “By the way. Hm. Erm. Saw John Watson yesterday. He’s back in London. Divorced. Thought you’d like to know.”

John.

Sherlock saw, reflected in Lestrade’s face, his own shock and hope, before he could shut down the feelings— _sentiment_. His immediate rush of excitement. His worry.

What if John wouldn’t see him?

What if Sherlock was rejected again?

It didn’t matter.

He’d see John again. He’d be a part of John’s life.

In whatever way he could be. He would make it happen. The possibilities stretched in his mind, options branching off as he computed the ways he could see John (his John!), could be in his orbit once again.

“Give me his number,” Sherlock rasped. “Or call him in. On a case. I don’t care how you do it.” _And I don’t care that I’m wearing my heart on my sleeve, for Lestrade to see and judge and deduce_. He cared about nothing else:

Sherlock would see him again.

John.

 

~ _fin_ ~

Or really: The Beginning! Please read, or reread, Emma Grant’s amazing “Nothing to Make a Song About,” which inspired this journey into Sherlock’s relationship history.

And here's a link to two of my original works on Amazon, one funny and one smutty:

<https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07CKX85C3>

I love kudos, and when people catch my typos. Thanks so much for reading! Xoxo Bret


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